Feeling Normal
by Emilee Crumby
Summary: Addison struggles to strike a balance with Sam. Can she stay away when he needs her? sick! Sam. Nothing bad, rating-wise. If you're not offended by the show, you won't be offended by the fic.
1. Chapter 1

Can I say that I love Sam? And by Sam, I mean Taye Diggs. Here's to him. This is just before the last season finale… before they reconciled anyway.

Reviews are appreciated but only if they're nice, or at least constructive, please. I get enough critique at work. This is fun time.

Disc: I own everything. Except Private Practice.

Addison stumbled into the kitchen and almost ran into Sam.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't see you there." She hesitated before passing by him to reach for some juice out of the fridge.

"It's fine." He said clearing his throat. His voice was a little hoarse and when he says 'fine' it sounds like "fide." Addison eyed him carefully.

"Are you okay, Sam? You sound a little congested there."

He shook his head but didn't speak.

She watched him a moment longer. There is akward tension between them and he won't make eye contact. Feeling slighted, she shrugged and left.

Sam immediately pitches forward into a tight sneeze which he had desperately tried to suppress. A slight sound escaped and he looked up worried. Addison didn't seem to hear though, having departed. Sam breathed a sigh of relief and pulled a napkin from the stack to blow his nose.

"That doesn't sound good," commented Violet, breezing in behind him.

"It's nothing," he croaked.

"'Duthig' huh?" Violet stole a swig of coffee before replacing the mug on the table and pressing her hand to Sam's head. She then lowered her long fingers to either sides of his neck and delicately feels his lymph nodes.

"Look who's a doctor all of a sudden," he grumbled petulantly.

"Something about a sniffling man brings back all the memories of my residency," she said, studying his eyes. "Now open up."

She tilted his chin so that the light above the sink could illuminate the inside of his mouth and surveyed a moment longer before letting go.

She turned to wash her hands and, after a moment of silence he is forced to ask.

"Well?"

Drying her hands on a paper towel she looked back at him. "Low grade fever, minimal lymph node swelling, throat seems fine. I would say that you, my friend, have caught yourself a cold."

At her final words, Sam raised a hand to hush her. Violet snuck a glance over her shoulder to see Addison reading a file in the hall outside the kitchen.

Sam rubbed at his nose and leans in confidentially. "The, uh, the patient _has_ been complaining of a sore throat for a few days. No chance of strep?"

"Not from what I've seen," Violet replied slowly, starting to catch on. "I think "the patient" requires nothing but fluids and rest for a few days."

"Good," Sam nodded assertively and watched Addison disappear from view. "Good."

His gaze snapped back as Violet waved a hand in front of his face.

"Why don't you want Addison to know you're sick?"

Sam wrinkled his brow. "What are you talking about?"

Violet dropped a hand to her hip. "I _am_ a therapist you know. Not that this tension," she indicated his balled up fists, "requires a degree in psychiatry." She paused. "Do you need to spend some time on my couch?"

Seeming to begin another protest of innocence, Sam's words were interrupted by a sharp sneeze followed by a desperate coughing fit.

Violet melted. She reached behind her for a small box of tissues. "You need to be on someone's couch, that's for sure," she said as she handed it over.

"I'll be fine," he insisted, blowing his nose.

"Yes, you will be. Because you're going home." As he started to protest again she continued. "You're sick, you're feverish, and if you don't take your butt home and get into some sweats right now I'm going to march into Addison's office this instant and fill her in."

Sam scowled. In one angry motion he snatched the box again, tucked it under an arm and marched from the kitchen leaving Violet behind to sigh and shake her head.


	2. Chapter 2

Forgive me. I can't actually remember the name or gender of the cat. If you fill me in, I'll fix it.

Addison pulled into her driveway later that evening and sighed. Another long day with three walk-in cases made her appreciate the weekends afforded working at a family practice. Back in her hospital days there was no such thing as a weekend. For that matter there may has well have been no such thing as daytime. The hours passed slowly beneath a fluorescent glow where passing a window was as close as she got to nature. Now the rapidly fading sun felt warm and healthy on her skin as she got out of the car and leaned back. By her calculations she had only another forty-five minutes or so to enjoy the summer day. Just barely enough to time to change, pour herself a glass of wine, and head to the back porch.

The sunlight dropped an inch and she moved her hand to shield the glare. On second thought, her pencil skirt and heels would suffice for now. She could change after nightfall. She squinted towards the house next door and was surprised to see Sam's car in the driveway. Hadn't Violet said he'd be consulting all day? He must have gotten out early. Lucky bastard. He had probably been enjoying the sun for hours.

The sunlight waned further and Addison scurried towards the house. Without wasting time to pour, she grabbed a bottle of red and a glass. She briefly considered grabbing a second glance and calling out to Sam but quickly decided against it. She still wasn't sure how to handle their situation. Something so natural, having her friend over for a drink, now jarred in her mind and she struggled against the grain of comfort.

Instead she tossed her purse to the couch and headed out to the deck where her folding chair was still warm from the day's heat. She leaned back into it and popped the top of the bottle. She watched the flowing crimson, glinting in the light as she poured a large glass. Sexual tension or not, this was a beautiful day for a drink on the back porch and she relaxed into her first sip.

There was a scratching noise behind her and a moment later the cat strode out across the deck and settled into the chair next to her.

"I'm sorry I didn't get you a glass," she told him, pulling a wide-brimmed hat from under her chair and plunking it onto her head. "I know how hard you work."

He took no notice as he kneaded his paws into the chair's cushion.

Addison turned her head around to glance at Sam's house. Too late she realized she should have oriented her chair where frequent glances wouldn't be so obvious. What if he were watching? Well, she would simply have to resist the urge to twist around in her chair every few minutes to see if here was about.

"Not that I particularly care," she told the cat. She faced forward again and stared into the ocean. A moment later she looked around again.

"I thought I heard something," she explained. The cat yawned.

"He's just been so weird lately," she confided. "Today, he wouldn't even make eye contact. I mean, what's so wrong with me trying to protect Naomi, you know? Our friendship is really important to me." She turned to see that the cat had fallen asleep.

"Great," she murmured. "Now even you're tired of all this."

She took another sip of wine and closed her eyes. Her hand dropped to her side, effectively wedging the glass between her thigh and the chair's arm. Soon, she too had drifted off.

Night soon fell and the heat of the day was absorbed by darkness. It was a cool breeze which awoke Addison and she shivered. Goosebumps prickled her arms and she ran a hand over them, trying to get warm. She looked beside her to see that the cat had vacated for a warmer perch.

"Thanks for waking me," she grumbled.

It was then that she noticed the lights on in Sam's house. Without the cat there to judge she turned to watch, comfortable in her cloak of darkness. She could see clearly through to his kitchen and quickly trained her eyes on the figure moving between the stove and sink.

His chiseled arms were swaddled in a thick fleece blanket, the kind Addison didn't know people in southern California even owned. When he moved back from the counter she could see a large mug of tea perched at its edge. He pulled a spoon from the drawer and began to adding heaps of honey, stirring after each one. Finally content, he took a sip and winced. From afar Addison winced along with him. She watched as he quickly put the mug back onto the counter and whipped a crumpled tissue from the pocket of his plaid pajama pants. He sneezed twice, dropping the blanket in the process. The sound reached all the way to her ears, a house away, and she winced again at the harshness of it. He discarded the tissue and then used his elbow to turn on the faucet over the sink. He washed his hands briskly and with a sense of routine. Addison almost laughed. Even home alone, and obviously feeling like crap, the germ-busting habits of being a doctor prevailed.

That's when it first struck her. He was alone. And sick. All alone and sick. She watched as he pressed a hand to his head, then let it drift down his face to his nose which he rubbed with frustration. Addison was no stranger to solitude and it's many charms. And its drawbacks. Such as fending for yourself when your head aches and your nose runs and you're pretty sure a truck backed over you while you were napping. She should go over there.

Only after swinging her legs to one side of the chair did she pause. Or should she? Going to Sam, taking care of Sam when he was sick, it all felt so normal and right. But just because it felt right didn't mean it was. In fact, most everything that felt right these days, was actually very wrong. She should stay here. Why reach a hand out in compassion only to be slapped away?

She continued to study him as he pulled the blanket up from the floor and dragged himself over to the couch. He wrapped the fleece back around his shoulders and got situated with a box of tissues and the wastebasket too close to miss. He looked around for a second, puzzled, before casting a long glance back towards the kitchen. There, Addison saw the mug of tea, still sitting behind the sink. Sam's face fell as he saw it too. She could almost see the dilemma playing out in his head. After another moment of deliberation, he sighed and leaned back into the sofa; obviously deciding that tea was not worth getting up again.

Okay, she was definitely going over there. She could hand him the tea and leave. Or wait until he was asleep and then bring the tea to his bedside. Or just sit here and deliberate some more. She rose her hands to her face and groaned. She should never have looked away from the ocean.

Will she go in? Probably.

This will be all until after the weekend. If you want updates sooner you're going to have to get Verizon to come to my house and fix my internet connection. Very sorry though.

Again, happy reviews please.


	3. Chapter 3

For a solid twenty-five minutes Addison watched Sam from her deck. The coolness of the night crept into her bones and she tucked her feet up under the blanket, telling herself just to go inside. But the slamming of her back door would wake him. The windows off his living room were open. It's how she heard him sneeze.

And hear him she did. Every five minutes or so, when Addison was sure he was asleep and had only started to rise, he would pitch forward, grab a fresh tissue, and sneeze two or three times. Then he would blow his nose and lay back down and Addison would again start to count the minutes until it seemed safe to creep over there.

From where she sat she could see the large wall clock over his sink. The five minute mark passed since she had seen him move. At ten minutes she'd go over there, she reasoned. She would warm up the tea and bring it to the couch, maybe cook some soup and set it to simmer. She could probably even feel his forehead without waking him. She just needed the information to help her decide whether to ninja in later with some Tylenol.

Seven minutes. She started when she remembered that the clock had been a wedding gift. She painfully recalled cataloguing it for a thank-you note along with the other bridesmaids, while Sam and Naomi were getting ready to leave for the honeymoon. She really shouldn't go over there. She could call someone. Cooper might be willing to hop over to check on his friend. Violet would be better. And more disposed for sure.

As the ten minutes were up she had nearly convinced herself not to go at all when she glanced back at Sam. He had curled to his side and rested a fist beneath his cheek. His mouth was slightly open and she could imagine the rough breathing sound she would have heard if she'd been close enough. As she watched, he reached his other hand over his head in a sleeping stretch. The blanket fell to the ground as he twisted and he soon dropped the arm back around his torso, shivering slightly.

She scowled. Even asleep, she couldn't resist him.

Cursing her own weakness she stood carefully and tiptoed across her deck. The wood was still warm beneath her bare feet. When she got to the French doors she reach out her left hand before abruptly stopping herself. The left door creaked. She slowly pulled open the right, and silent, door and then closed it behind her, nestling the catch into the door frame soundlessly.

Now that she was inside she could hear the steady beating of the ceiling fan and felt protected by the white noise. She found the tea on the counter and pressed her hand to the side of the mug. Lukewarm at best. For a brief moment she considered the microwave before deciding its hum would be too loud. She would just have to make a fresh pot. She refilled the kettle at a painfully slow drip and placed it on the oven. She found a tea bag and dropped it in a new mug before heading to the fridge to slice some lemon.

When that task had finished she started to sift through the cabinets in search of chicken stock and then pouring what she found into a shallow pan. After boiling some fresh noodles she added a twist of herbs from the hydroponic garden on the window sill and set the concoction to simmer.

She managed to pull the tea kettle from the burner moments before it started to whistle and now, decided to try her luck at actually approaching Sam. She brought the mug and rested it gently at his side. Then she reached for the blanket and pulled it up to his chin. She hesitated before placing a hand on his forehead and was relieved that the fever wasn't so bad after all. Definitely low enough to be more beneficial than dangerous.

She set at the edge of the coffee table for a moment longer, studying her friend's sleeping form. He snored heavily through an open mouth, completely oblivious to her presence. And now that she was here she didn't want to leave. Addison sighed softly and saw that there was no reason to stay. She would come back later. He needed to be monitored in case his fever rose, she reasoned with herself.

With that thought she stealthily made her way back out of the house and over to her own. She headed into her kitchen and twisted the blinds until she could perfectly see both Sam and the soup lightly cooking on the stove. She leaned her elbows across the counter and rested her chin in a hand. Milo jumped up beside her and she stroked his back with her other hand.

"No, no," she told him. "You go on to bed. I'm just going to stay here awhile longer."

The next morning, glaring sunlight woke Sam out of a deep, warm sleep. He sat up quickly, too quickly, and began to cough. Glancing around he saw a bottle of water and quickly uncapped it, drinking until his throat was soothed. When he regained composure he threw his legs to the side of the couch and leaned over, pressing his head into his hands. Why did he sleep on the couch? Why, when his bedroom had all those nice, heavy curtains, blocking the offending light?

He stared for a moment at the floor. Something didn't feel right. Something besides his aching body and sinuses so swollen he imagined his nose actually appeared bigger. He lifted his head and glanced at the bottle of water he had just drank. Beads of condensation collected along its edges and there was a rim of moisture where it had stood before. It was ice cold. And was that a fresh box of tissues next to it? Surely he had used more than that last night.

He remembered so little from last night. He knew he had gotten up just after dark and came into the kitchen to look for food. He had made tea. And he remembered drinking it. Vaguely. He looked back to the coffee table. Bottled water, tissues, but no empty tea mug. He must have washed it out. How high was his fever to forget getting up and washing dishes? Probably he had just dumped it into the sink.

He looked over, across the couch, and saw a steaming pot on the stove. He stood, waited for the dizziness to pass, and then went to investigate. The pot was full of soup, clear brown, with tiny bubbles forming around the edges. And full of carrots, celery, egg noodles, and was that fresh thyme?

"There's no way I was that out of it," he said out loud. He wrinkled his nose at the grating harshness of his voice and the stinging that ran down his throat when he spoke. Sam looked back at the soup. It looked good. It probably smelled good too.

Suddenly he was apathetic. Who cared that someone broke into his house and made soup? There _was_ soup, and it was probably delicious, and Sam was hungry. He scooped out a generous portion and headed back to the couch. When he started eating the, supposedly delectable meal, he came across an unfortunate realization. It may as well have been hot water for all he could taste. The only flavor that came through was something hot and peppery and Sam realized that this was a very spicy soup. This was confirmed as his nose began to run and then, he was grateful for the fresh tissues.

First he was wiping his nose in between bites. When the seasoning really started to hit him, he put the bowl down and decided to blow fully. After going through nearly the entire box he was feeling much better. He could breathe and with ease. When he went back to the soup he could actually taste the flavors and found that it was really delicious. He went back for seconds and frowned when he saw there wasn't even enough to completely refill the bowl.

Sam opened the fridge for some bread, that would hopefully lengthen the soup life, and was again disoriented by the array of purchases he didn't remember making. There was fresh squeezed orange juice, crusty French bread, and several Tupperware containers that appeared to be full of more chicken soup.

He closed the refrigerator door with a sudden awareness and cast a long glance towards Addison's house. It was on higher ground than his own and he could see nothing through the windows. However all the blinds were slanted and one even crookedly bent to reveal a wider opening. He stared at this for a long time.


End file.
